on the wings of the morning
by dalai
Summary: It is morning now, on the heels of an endless night.


**Welcome to my first psych fic! It's just a drabbly post- finale thing I came up with during Molecular Genetics, but I hope you enjoy it. Reviews would be lovely. **

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He'll get Ying. There's never any doubt, not even with two lives (literally) tied up in the outcome. The game is not over, and he's sure, with the confidence (bordering on arrogance) that guides him in all things, that he'll win. It should be more comforting than it is, but the assurance that the man will spend the rest of his life behind bars when Shawn catches up is tempered by the one persistent doubt that haunts him. Because he's certain, with equal fervor, that there will be a price, and he isn't sure that victory will be worth the cost. Not that he has a choice.

Not that he ever had a choice.

His dad is talking quietly with Gus in the corner of the station, both casting frequent glances in the direction of the still-damp psychic. Lassie (with his own nervous glances falling on his partner) sits across from Juliet, both stubbornly typing what he is almost sure will turn out to be near-gibberish. Vic is in her office, not bothering to pretend that she is doing anything more than staring into space. It is morning now, on the heels of an endless night.

With very few exceptions, the handful of people he actually cares about is here in this room with him, and he is suddenly desperate to keep them there. To keep them in sight.

He wonders if he'll ever be able to look at them again without thinking "next time".

Next time, they may not survive. Next time, he may not see the clues, may not put them together in time. Especially if his mind doesn't stop whirling this way.

His quicksilver brain seems unable to stop skipping through half-images and aborted emotions. Abigail, who could love him, but doesn't think he's worth the risk (he agrees). Jules and the hands of a clock and the way she looked at him, after, which did nothing for the ache in his chest. His father's hands in his hair, and feeling safe for the first (and last) time since this started. Gus, choking on relief, Lassie, fiercely protective, Vic, worrying. The terrifying simplicity in one or the other. And waiting…waiting to the sound of their hearts beating impossibly fast while his own seemed to slow almost to stopping.

Juliet is standing now, shakily, but determinedly. She's gathering her things, apparently having made the decision to be the first to break the protective bubble of ignore-the-issue they have built here. Lassiter seems frozen in space, half-standing, rare indecision coloring his features. The others stand, silent sentinels, watching with eagle-eyed attention. He is not the only one, then, feeling the urge to stay close.

Juliet turns then, meets his eyes, hers reflecting a different kind of desperation. It is something familiar, almost comfortable. And despite what his own heart is screaming, he will not stop her.

He understands the need to run.

He stops Lassiter's interception with a slight shake of his head (and it's odd, that Lassiter obeys without question. Odder still that this sudden show of respect sets his chest to aching all over again. This may be the thing that finally breaks him.)

She gives him a small smile as she passes, and his picture-show brain calls up all the ways she used to smile at him. This is not, "you're an idiot" or "I'm pretending not to like you" or even that terribly sad "go see about a girl" smile she gave him at the drive-in.

This, this is understanding (more than should be possible in a relationship that is predicated on a lie) and it is absolution (she does not blame him, he knows, and he wishes he could tell her how wrong she is) and it is the blank misery of a victim.

He was wrong, so very wrong; _this_ is the thing that finally breaks him.

It is ten minutes after she goes, and he still hasn't caught his breath. Looking up, he is only distantly aware of the four pairs of eyes watching him with poorly concealed worry. And maybe the need to flee is contagious, or maybe his old habits are reappearing with a vengeance, but he is suddenly overwhelmed with the desire to be somewhere, anywhere, but here. And while part of him still wants to keep these people within the circle of his protection, a larger part recognizes that the last twenty-four hours have proved, unfailingly, that he does more harm than good. Looking into his dad's eyes for a brief moment, he is met with understanding and, alarmingly, fear. He is going, before he even stops to make a conscious decision. He's never been good at unselfish anyway.

He wants to make a joke or an inappropriate comment, wants to generally make an ass of himself if that is what it takes to get him out of this mess unscathed. If only he weren't so exhausted, if only his mind could form words around the memory of her face, it might yet be possible. As it is, he walks away without a word.

The breeze off the ocean cuts through still-drying fabric, but it doesn't do a thing to ease his breathing.

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**Please review! **


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